


Stuck In A Moment

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-14
Updated: 2005-03-14
Packaged: 2019-05-15 06:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14784890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: Now you're stuck in a moment, and you can't get out of it.





	Stuck In A Moment

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Stuck In A Moment**

**by: Baked Goldfish**

**Character(s):** Danny  
**Category(s):** General/Angst  
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Disclaimer:** Danny Concannon is Aaron Sorkin's (that sounds randy). Title and summary are from U2's "Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of." I don't own either U2 or TWW. Harlan Ellison is cool. No money being made. Please don't sue.  
**Summary:** Now you're stuck in a moment, and you can't get out of it.  


I have to turn them down. 

A few months ago, I'd written this op-ed piece, on the President's decision to run again. It was some of the best work I'd ever written, and I knew it, too. It was powerful. 

Even CJ was impressed. She complimented me on it, and I asked her out, and she said no, and I said hello to Gail. Our little fish is still doing swimmingly well, by the way, spritely and golden as ever. Little Gail has no idea what's going on in the world, because her brain is nearly non-existent and she can't really hear, anyway. 

Well, that's kinda wrong. She can feel the vibrations in the water when people are moving and talking around her. But she can't really understand what we're saying; it's not in Fishese, or Fishish, or whatever the hell language it is that fish speak. She doesn't know that the world is completely wrong. 

Bastard little goldfish. 

The op-ed piece was great. I wrote it right after the President, sodden with rain and tears and the loss of a dear, close friend, told us he was gonna stay in this town for a little while longer. Truth be told, I was sodden with all those things, too. But I'd written it spur of the moment, and I didn't think, at first, that it'd be published. I'd written it for me, from the heart. 

Maybe that's why it was so good. It didn't have an agenda, it just had feeling. 

It was positive, that's for sure. And it was different, stood out from the crowd. Where the rest of the press was writing incendiary pieces calling for Bartlet's resignation, I had this one, lone, support line. I don't know. I'm the senior White House correspondent for the Post, maybe I can get the rest of those guys to change their minds and issue less . . . negative editorials. 

It's all about the spin of things, you know. All about the spin. 

My views of him are tainted, I know. I'm a journalist, and I'm not supposed to put spins on pieces, but sometimes I do. When we--they were shot at, at the Newseum, I put a spin on the fact that nobody was clearly in charge that night. Others followed my lead. Bartlet's a good man, and while I did have an obligation as a journalist to include the fact that there was no clear leader of our country for a moment that night, it was my obligation as his friend to tone it down. I owed him that much. 

And now, a year after we were shot at, I had an obligation to him again. As a friend, and a supporter. 

God, it's been a year already. A year since I was in that building, hearing the shots outside, unable to do anything but listen to the loud cracks and the screams, and smell the firecracker scent of the gunpowder. It was like some sort of hellish version of the Fourth of July, with the flashing lights of cop cars and ambulances and booms of the guns taking the place of the fireworks, and the screams and sirens taking the place of the orchestras. Those patriotic reds, whites, and blues were blood, fear-blanched skin, and loss of oxygen as someone lies on the ground near dead. 

It's been a year, now, and again the President is being attacked. One must wonder what will happen to him next year, this time. It'll be bad, because this administration seems to have bad luck in May. 

I wrote an op-ed piece, to fight off that bad luck. And this great op-ed piece, this editorial that CJ complimented me on, this wonderful piece that praises Bartlet's triumphs and uses his flaws to make him look that much more human and accessible, this article was seen by some people putting up an exhibit on the American presidential campaign. Part of the exhibit is on President Bartlet's decision to run, and they wanted opposing views on the MS scandal. Since I have one of the few positive views on it, they really wanted me there, to give a lecture at the Newseum. 

I hadn't been to the Newseum since that one night, when the whole world crashed down upon us. I drove down there tonight; I had to at least see it again before I gave them my answer. 

The parking lot was eerily quiet, dead. The museum itself was all closed up, like it was some sort of ghost town, and for a moment all I heard was passing traffic. Then, as if I was watching some sort of nightmarish movie, I could see it all happening, right before me. It was all in slow motion, and I couldn't even move. It was just like what I'd seen on CNN, and MSNBC, and the other networks time and time again, but somehow different. Darker, and I could hear the screams and sirens louder, as if they were right in my ear. I could smell blood, and, when I walked to the spot where Josh had collapsed, I imagined I could see blood, also. 

I got back into my car quickly, my hands shaking as if electricity was shooting through them. It took me a few minutes on the road to get myself together, to get myself to stop shaking and to get rid of the tunnel vision that threatened to overtake me. The parking lot was bad enough; I couldn't go back inside that building. Ever. I was stuck in that moment, a year ago, when the skies began darkening, and the rains began. I couldn't see being able to walk around that building anytime soon, for anything. My throat closes up at the thought of even giving a taped interview there. I can't do it. 

I have to turn them down. 

-end- 


End file.
